


A Three-Part Exercise in Communication

by stone_in_focus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drabble, Established Relationship, Fluff, Future Fic, Graceless Verse, Human Castiel, Ice Play, M/M, No Angst, POV Multiple, POV Third Person, Post-Season/Series 10, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 21:41:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3952765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stone_in_focus/pseuds/stone_in_focus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean never talks about what happened—the choice that Cas made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Three-Part Exercise in Communication

I.

It’s a hot, sticky night somewhere in the bowels of southwestern Minnesota. Sam waits against Baby while Dean books a couple of rooms at a roadside motel, swatting at the fucking mosquitos buzzing about and eating up his arms. Isn’t it technically supposed to be Canada here? Because he’d sure as hell take a blizzard over West Nile virus.

Cas doesn’t seem affected at all by the pests, lucky bastard, although he’s staring rather forlornly at the bottom of an empty plastic bottle, trying to get his tongue at the last droplets of water. Letting his head loll back when the trees grow restless and a small gust of wind rushes over them like a godsend.

Sam wonders if it’s easier the second time around. Being human. 

Dean never talks about what happened—the choice that Cas made. And Sam’s known his brother too long to bring it up. He hasn’t probed Cas much for info, either. After that one awkward conversation about the lyrics to “Can’t Fight This Feeling” and flashbacks to Dean’s terrible singing, well, maybe there were some things that those two idiots were just going to have to figure out by themselves.

A few minutes and a splotch of bug bites later, Dean exits the motel office, jingling a pair of keys. He pauses when he sees Sam and Cas, eyes darting back and forth, pursing his lips and doing that thing with his face like he’s about to say something but then completely abandons the effort. Instead, Dean raises one key, gives it to Sam along with a really kinda weird tap to his shoulder, and promptly does a one-eighty towards his own motel room, Cas in tow. The ex-angel manages an apologetic shrug before the door slams shut.

Sam blinks. 

He’s pretty sure there’s an entire chorus of crickets screeching along to REO Speedwagon.

Eventually, he just nods his head to no one in particular, chin down as he feels the key in his palm and smiles.

He supposes choosing humanity was never about “easy,” anyway.

II.

When the door closes behind him, Dean doesn’t bother to flip on the light switch. The throbbing at his arm is long gone, but the ache is still there, bone-deep and pervasive—the one ghost he’ll never be able to kill. He wipes at his drippy hairline, the creases on his face more like trenches than laugh lines, but before he mumbles something about needing a cold shower, Cas grabs the hem of his shirt, pulls at each layer until his shoulders’re a little lighter, and lets Dean collapse into him.

They rock into each other, sheets off but all hands-on, and for all his bitching earlier, Dean wonders if it won’t be the heatstroke that’ll be his undoing tonight. And Cas is such a good sport—so good to Dean—he’ll do all the work, sneaking a piece of ice from the bucket and dragging it along his lips, letting Dean suck at it until he’s licking the melty parts off of Cas’ fingers. And— _fuck—_ he hasn’t done ice play since his twenties. He forgot how fucking amazing the sting of cold feels against his sweat-slicked skin; all the fucking chills that course through his body as Cas flicks the ice over his nipple; how digging his teeth into his bottom lip is all he can do to keep himself from firing one off too soon.

It’s better than Dean thinks he deserves, but them’s fightin’ words these days, and Dean is so goddamn tired, he’ll believe anything right now. And when kisses turn into moans at the hollow of each other’s neck, when Cas takes them both into the heat of his palm and Dean bucks into his fist, hell, Dean almost feels downright righteous compared to the sins spilling from Cas’ mouth. He’s fucking beautiful, all matted hair and scraggly jawline and dick like Mjölnir and fucking  _beautiful,_  man. Cas’ halo may be gone, but Dean swears he still sees a glow. And Dean’s never been so selfish in his life, but he wants it all—wants every last inch of him—and Cas just... _gives_ it away.

This time, Dean’s gonna keep him.

When Dean comes, he shakes harder than the paper-thin walls around them, burying his fingers into the damp curls at the back of Cas’ neck and biting something between a praise and a curse at his ear. And as Cas joins him back down on solid ground, wiping off the mess and laying a head on his chest—but not before getting one last taste of Dean on his lips—it’s funny how Dean doesn’t feel the weight when Cas drifts off to the sound of his still-beating ticker.

He just might even laugh.

III.

An hour past sunrise, the three of them stumble into a diner a few miles down the road, sliding into the booth furthest back and trying to rub themselves awake. Cas and Dean aren’t complaining about the lack of sleep, however, and Sam, much as he did when Dean wiggled his brow and revved up the Impala, likely refuses to touch the subject.

Once the waitress comes around, clad in pistachio green like his favorite ice cream—he’s recently discovered—Cas decides he’s curious about the Western omelette. Sam indulges in a bran muffin, and Dean orders the colloquially-named T-12, which is truly as tremendous as the menu implies.

Sam appears to agree, quirking an eyebrow at Dean while he dumps a greedy serving of maple syrup all over his pancakes, breakfast meats, and even his eggs. The eyebrow quirk transforms into a curl of the lips and a snort under Sam’s breath, and although Cas can’t see Dean from the front, he surmises it involves visible chunks of food inside a face-splitting grin and Dean being an all-around little shit.

Cas thinks he’s starting to understand the adage about how there’s some things you can’t put a price on.

Utensils clink against ceramic plates, newspapers crinkle as the locals turn the pages, and the countertop radio crackles to life with country music and weather updates—muggy with a chance of showers. Cas sips at his coffee once it’s cooled off, savoring the hazelnut undertones as he laces his fingers into the hand currently not preoccupied with forking an entire short stack. A room full of grease, the lingerings of tobacco smoke, and the hygenically-challenged probably wasn’t the paradise his heavenly brethren once fought for.

But when the squeeze is reciprocated, he can’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of peace.

The battle’s been won after all.


End file.
